Thursday, 13 April 2017

Poem. 12

The walls of the tower are all chalky white,
the doors are white too
A blank canvas, no one has bothered to paint
Feels like an oubliette, a place where things are forgotten
So often, that's how it feels: Forgotten.

Blue wisps outside illuminate a potential path back
but a dead end is all they lead to.
A back window frames a slightly overgrown lie
misguided image of something that this is not.

I can't see them here,
no adventures out in that green
no Christmas steps on those stairs
that's all the proof I need- when it's wrong it's wrong.

Is it death? That stains this crisp clean place?
I don't think so...there's too much Alone, to be haunted.
A presence would be welcome, if they stayed for tea.
It's just an emptiness, that's all
.Emptiness filled by other peoples noise.
My own drowned out.
Is this why I can't write? Did I leave my ability with Connie?

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